Footsteps
by Evendim
Summary: The Council of Elrond looms, and one lonely mortal is welcomed to Imladris by a warmhearted hobbit. The developing friendship between Boromir and Pippin.
1. Chapter 1

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

_**Inspired by 'Footsteps' by Chris De Burgh**_

_Dedicated to Pipkin Sweetgrass, a lady who made a fledgling writer feel so very welcome in this fandom as far back as 2003_

_Best wishes, Evendim._

ooOoo

_Rivendell, the night before the Council of Elrond_

Boromir of the House of Hurin, heir of the Steward of Gondor, stepped down from the saddle of his horse, a seventeen hands chestnut by the name of _Menelvagor_, (the swordsman of the skies) and entrusted the weary mount into the care of a groom. Or, so the dejected mortal assumed. With the ease of one born to privilege Boromir then walked away, headed towards the terraces of The Last Homely House. The ellon into whose hands Boromir had handed the caparisoned reins stood with his mouth agape. How could the elf possibly know that Boromir took it for granted that whilst in the Citadel there would always be a servant on hand? Boromir sat to dine each night in the Merethrond, and never once did he look back to check was there a chair beneath him.

"You are catching flies," said Glorfindel as he pushed Erestor's jaw closed with an audible _snap_.

"He gave me his reins," Erestor gasped.

"Likely he has more than one set, Snookums. I should just accept them in the way they were offered, _graciously_," said Glorfindel, finding this entire state of affairs hilarious.

"Me," Erestor gasped, "he gave _me_ his reins, I, who am Seneschal to the Lord of Imladris!"

"Ye-es, one can see where you are coming from, but do not overlook the fact that he is the elder son of the Lord of Gondor," said Glorfindel.

"You are enjoying this, you…great blond streak of aggravation!" Erestor was as discomfited as a cat trapped in a rain barrel.

"…and an honoured guest of Elrond," said Glorfindel as he mentally nailed the barrel shut. Oh, one of his _lives_ little pleasures was tormenting the haughty Noldo by his side. One minor glitch in the flow of protocol, and Erestor Egnor-ion festered up like a hammered thumb.

"Do I look even _remotely_ like a groom?" Erestor demanded as he passed the animal's reins to an ellon genuinely employed in that capacity, and now he was shaking out his burgundy velvet robes, and settling the belt about his narrow waist upon which hung the keys to the Last Homely House, and the symbol of Erestor's rank.

"I doubt if he would know you again if he were to fall on top of you, snooks," said Glorfindel, using the pet name he had given to Erestor many, many, moons ago, upon comparing him to then kitchen mouser.

"What a repugnant notion," said Erestor, and then he performed an all over body shimmy that simply oozed distaste, and there it was, Snookums, the kitchen mouser parodied to perfection!

Boromir, blissfully unaware that he had offered insult to an elf lord, strode up the broad sweep of steps to arrive upon a long covered walkway under the sloping eves of the house. The man ached in every pore, and his posterior had given up the ghost forty miles out from Imladris. He had left his city on July fourth, and now it was 24th October. If only Erestor had known the perilous journey the mortal had endured just to be here tonight, he might have excused the trail dirt besmirching Boromir's regal clothing.

"Erm…are you meant to be here?"

Boromir spun around, expecting to see a member of Elrond's household. Imagine his surprise to find him self face to face with a statue bearing a stone harp. Elves, _augh_, they so made one's nerves jangle with their ethereal ways!

"Oi…! Down here!"

"What are you, precisely?" Boromir asked, amply displaying why he was the soldier of the family, and his father was the diplomat.

"I am the voice of the statue; provoke me at your own peril! I'm a hobbit, what else would I be with feet like these?"

"I must admit, you have a good grip upon Arda with those, my friend," Boromir chuckled, as he scrutinized the outsized hairy feet.

"You take in more than your fair share of her air with that nose, mortal," the hobbit retorted.

Boromir fell silent, and his brows knit together as he thought this through, and just as the hobbit clasped the ridiculous elven dagger at his side, no doubt doing service as a sword, the man doubled over, slapped his thigh, and rocked with mirth. Instantly the threat was removed, and the cheeky-faced hobbit, with the red curly hair, and jolly green eyes, joined in with the man's raucous laughter.

"Oh," Boromir gasped, "I needed that. I have gone almost mad journeying in the wilds alone. I thought I might never get here on more than one occasion; Boromir."

"Actually, I am Peregrin Took of the Shire, Pippin to my friends," said the half-ling.

"No, I meant…I am Boromir, a lord of Gondor, my friends call me 'my lord'," deadpanned the broad-set, handsome blond man, with the most amazing green eyes.

"Och, you, you are nowhere near as fierce as you like to pretend. I admit that upon first seeing you, I thought you might be quite dangerous," the hobbit opined.

"I _am_ dangerous!" Boromir pouted, offended, "I am one of the most dangerous men you could hope to meet…or not!"

"Na," said Pippin, "we came here in _that_ man's company, now, this Strider is _seriously_ dangerous, I should not like to tread upon _his_ toes!"

"I should not like you to tread upon mine," said Boromir, "given the advantage you have over most of Arda in the foot department!"

"I like you," Pippin said with open sincerity, he took Boromir's broad, gauntleted paw, within his own smaller one, and led the man as though this was the most natural way to progress around the Last Homely House. At the first this intimacy made Boromir uncomfortable, but the innocence in the lively hobbit's eyes reassured him that no-one would assume that Boromir was behaving inappropriately towards this smaller guest of Elrond.

"Yes, but you could not eat all of me?" Boromir replied.

"Ha! You don't know hobbits at _all_, do you, big man?" Pippin chuckled.

Big man, oh, that had just caught in Boromir's throat on the way down, no-one, save Faramir, dared to use such familiarity towards the Captain-General of Gondor. It was not done. But somehow this rather absurd little creature cared not a fig for convention. It was refreshing, endearing, and Boromir exhaled the breath he had held upon having his hand… _Took_…heh…and just savoured the contact after so long with just a set of hairy equine ears into which to converse.

"No, Master Took, I do not know hobbits, but I suspect I should like to," Boromir said sincerely.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

_Inspired by Footsteps by Chris De Burgh _

**Chapter Two**__

**Taking Counsel…From a Hobbit!**

**For Pipkin Sweetgrass**

**ooOoo**

Boromir strode from the glade where the Council of Elrond had just concluded. The Gondorian was filled with turmoil, for this encounter had not panned out quite as he had expected. His father had sent him here to engage the assistance of the free races to repel the filth of Mordor, and yet here he stood, sworn to escort the diminutive Frodo to Mordor, to destroy the very object his father wished to seal within the vaults of Minas Tirith in order to hold it out of Sauron's reach. How had he been coerced into this madness?

"You seem…troubled," said a soft voice behind him, and Boromir spun about upon one boot heel, tilted his head back regally, and met the eyes of…his king.

"You _truly_ are no elf," said Boromir, "you are a wolf, come in sheep's clothing, insinuating yourself into the presence of your kin without troubling to announce yourself. Men of the south are welcome here, aye, and of the north, also, it seems!"

"I ought to have been less…guarded…with the truth, when we met last night in the Sanctuary of the Sword, I understood this in the same moment that Legolas so callously threw my heritage in your face. I apologize, friend," said Aragorn.

"Friend….?" Boromir snorted. "You are the one who shall tear down everything that my family has lived, has _died_, to sustain! With your return my father shall pass into that place where none shall recall his greatness, he shall be shut out of your glory, condemned to die in the past which shall be _his_ realm to govern, but without even a rod with which to rule. You are his nemesis."

"It need not be so," said Aragorn, "there shall be a place, still, for so good and faithful a servant."

"We Hurins do not eat crumbs cast from the table of Isildur. The Steward of the House of Anarion has no need of your niggardly charity," Boromir had never bowed to any man other than his father, he was not about to do so now, and especially not here, in a foreign realm, and to a man he could not respect, far less honour. Turning abruptly from Aragorn's presence he strode away a second time, and was there _no_ place in this benighted land where one could be alone with one's tumultuous thoughts?

ooOoo

Boromir loosed the gold clasp that held his fur-lined travelling cloak in place, and he sat down upon it nearby a tinkling little rivulet, and there he wept. How long he sat there, permitting himself to dispel his pent up frustration and misery, he could not tell. He had been so stressed upon taking up his father's rightful place at the Council, and so utterly worn out, physically and mentally, from such a prolonged journey, (which Denethor had to have been insane, unbalanced at the very least, to have his heir embark upon unescorted) that the final straw which had broken his back had been that haughty little prince-ling from Mirkwood with his smug outburst. Could not Elrond, out of common decency, have taken Gondor's Captain General to one side and explained precisely what Aragorn's relationship was to Gondor, and by doing so have spared Boromir the humiliation of being fetched face to face with his future king before the representatives of all the free races? Apparently not; and now Boromir had been written off as some egotistical boor who did not even have the grace to bow to his king.

"I am a Hurin," he whispered aloud, "I bow to _no_ man!"

"You should try being a hobbit," said a familiar voice, "we bow to everybody, quite unintentionally of course, except maybe for the dwarves. Take my hanky, it's quite clean, I just dusted off my feet fur with it before eavesdropping upon the Council; no bogies, I promise." For a moment Pippin thought he had made the distraught man's situation even worse, but then he realized Boromir was not weeping, he was laughing himself hoarse!

"What exactly are 'bogies'?" Boromir asked.

"Erm…boogers, hanky greenflies, you know, _snot_?" Pippin had fully exhausted his vocabulary, but now the mortal had cottoned on, and he was rolling on the springy grass in utter abandonment, flattening the manicured verge as he did so.

"Forgive me," said Boromir as he delicately dabbed his eyes and passed the 'kerchief back.

"Why? Here, maybe you should just keep this," Pippin wrinkled his nose, and held up his hand to block the hanky being returned.

"No, I have not…I meant forgive me for my lack of self control; your 'kerchief is quite un-anointed," Boromir laughed.

"What lack of self control? I do that when I stub my toe," said Pippin.

"Well, stubbing those toes must hurt abominably," said Boromir.

"Budge up on that cloak, this grass is too green to be anything other than wet. Nice place, eh, Rivendell?" Pippin opined.

"If one could only remove the elves," Boromir mumbled.

"What _was_ that like last night? What a palaver! Yon Senny-schal, Lord Erestor, was in high dudgeon at you, and no mistake," said Pippin.

"How was I to know he was not a groom?" Boromir sighed. "How may one discern their rank? Gilded ear points?"

"Oh, here, stop that, I have a stitch in my side," Pippin hooted.

"You need to stretch, no, arms higher, over to one side, better?" Boromir asked.

"Here, that worked a treat," said Pippin.

"Infantrymen get cramps with boring regularity," said Boromir.

Pippin sat back down, closer still this time, but not quite in the man's lap, for that might be an invasion of his personal space, but close enough to take Boromir's hand, just as he had the previous evening. The hobbit instinctively knew this would be acceptable to the big, bluff, soldier of whom he was growing so fond. Boromir made a little snickering noise, but still he allowed the contact, more personal upon this occasion, given he was not gauntleted today.

"Do you ever have time for yourself, big man? Only, every experience you describe has a military theme," said Pippin.

"One supposes one must have _some_ free time," said Boromir.

"How do you pass it, this rare downtime?" The Halfling was not being impertinent; he was merely intrigued by all aspects of this mortal. "What hobbies do you have?"

"I…and then there is…one supposes one could include…" Boromir shook his head and glanced away.

"You puir wee soul, its little wonder your nerves are strung tighter than Lobelia Bracegirdle's corset!" Pippin said in horror.

"It that very bad; to be compared to…whose corset?" Boromir enquired.

"Long story, an extremely fecund family the Bagginses," said Pippin, "do you mean to tell me you never just lie on the grass and listen to the birdsong?"

"Minas Tirith is hewn from a mountain, her skirts are made out of stone, and there is very little birdsong so close to Mordor, Master Took," Boromir replied.

"So, you pass your days in soldiering or on display in the city, that is so sad," said Pippin.

"I have known no other way of life, to be a Hurin is an occupation as much as a to be a…smith, or a miller," said Boromir.

"So, when Aragorn was revealed as your king, you thought of how you, and your folks, have held his realm together, and yet he is out there, free to dance to a tune of his own making almost, it had to have been a knife in your heart, eh?" the Halfling asked.

"I would have liked to have had some prior warning," Boromir confessed, "for then I might have been able to control my emotions, and not acted like some…oik!"

"Well, no point in crying over spilled milk, eh?" a loud growl rumbled long and low, and Pippin clasped his stomach and frowned, "it is no use, for the beast will not relent until it has been fed. Yon Erestor has a heavy hand with the jam; crusty bread fresh from the ovens, golden butter, blackcurrant jam, oh, come on, there's bound to be enough for both of us!" Pippin sprang to his feet, and it had to require practice, Boromir mused, as he watched the hobbit's agility, and then Pippin hauled upon Boromir's arm to fetch him to his feet.

"Hurry up, for if Merry gets a whiff of fresh bread he'll scoff the entire batch!"

"Pippin…?"

"Aye…?"

"Thank you, for your company," said Boromir, "and for sharing your wisdom, little one."

There was no derogatory tone to this new form of address, and Pippin suspected it was more an accolade than a put down, and so he took this new label on board willingly.

"Come on, big man, today just might be your day in the sun," said the wise little hobbit.

TBC

Thanks to all who reviewed, I have missed penning these two (Boromir/Pippin) characters, for they have a magical, innocent, quality that is a treat to explore! Besides, Billy Boyd was born about eight miles from where I live in Scotland, and his accent is a joy to replicate!

Evendim


	3. Chapter 3

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Three**

**The Man Who Would Be King**

**ooOoo**

Erestor made a second round of the table, pouring tea into delicate china dishes; his expression as he re-filled the Gondorian's cup was one of chagrin. How could eggshell porcelain survive being grasped by that meaty great paw? Glorfindel was clearly reading his friend's mind, for the blond was shaking his head, and an audible '_tsk'_ rent the silence in the huge kitchen. Glorfindel lectured Erestor regularly about his judgemental ways. Glorfindel, who having been granted a second chance at life, was so much more aware of the fragility of the second born, for they were near to the end of their life span before they had gained a fraction of the wisdom of the Eldar, and had not centuries to squander learning to appreciate porcelain. Silly little cat; Glorfindel's latest expression conveyed his disappointment to Erestor with consummate eloquence. Much to Erestor's astonishment, and to Glorfindel's delight, Boromir did not crush the delicate dish, and furthermore he was refraining from drinking from the finger bowls. Erestor's right eyebrow climbed up his forehead, highlighting his surprise when the mortal delicately dabbed the blackcurrant jam from his lips and fingers with the pristine napkin. Glorfindel covered his own eyes with one elegant, long fingered, hand, and audibly groaned. The mortal could easily read Erestor's thoughts, and Snarky Cat was about to get his comeuppance.

"Shocking, one knows," said Boromir with a grin, and a glint of mischief in his jade eyes, "one even lifts the wood when one avails one's self of the porcelain, but hush! One should hate to be mistaken for a man of culture!"

"Ha!" Glorfindel exploded into laughter as Erestor's face stained deep wine from embarrassment.

"One did not think…" Erestor began, but Boromir leapt in with a stab at what was to follow.

"That we _oafish_ mortals had plumbing in Minas Tirith?"

"…otherwise!" Erestor concluded huffily.

"Get away!" Pippin said in amazement.

"One swears it is so, upon one's…honour!" said Boromir just as Aragorn entered the kitchen, and how unfortunate was Aragorn's timing, for it was hanging, unspoken, between the two men present that one of them lacked the quality being sworn upon by the other.

"Aye, well, I really ought to be running along, face to wash, feet to comb, you know how it is!" Pippin was one of life's innocents, but he could recognize tension when he was exposed to it, and it was fairly swirling about this room.

"Thank you, little one, I appreciated your company today," said Boromir.

"Och, any time, big man, any time, ye only have to whistle. You _can_ whistle?" Pippin asked cheekily.

Not dallying to await a reply, Pippin exited the kitchen, eager to be away before these two stags clashed antlers yet again.

"Do not hang about like a question mark, Estel, be seated, Glorfindel shall slice you some bread," said Erestor as he topped up the tea pot with freshly boiled water.

"His hands are not painted on," said Glorfindel, "he may slice his own bread."

"That is hardly the attitude of a credible host!" Erestor chided.

"Estel is not a guest, for he has a chamber here, for when he chooses to stay here," said Glorfindel, "but limiting the social skills of a genuine guest, _that_ is a less than charitable attitude, o' pompous one!"

"I…I…!" Erestor's jaw was swinging, and his face was flushed with embarrassment once more.

"Catching more flies, snooks, it is fast becoming a habit. Excuse me, gentlemen, I have my collection of Noldorin daggers to re-arrange," said Glorfindel as he bowed and stood to leave. Before the elf lord from Gondolin fully made his escape, Erestor deftly deflated his expanded ego.

"He resorts to doing so, seated, _closeted_, one might say, as he awaits the _senna_ _pods_ kicking into action," said Erestor, and, oh, revenge was sweet!

Aragorn, healer extraordinaire, caught the inference of constipation instantly, and snickered in a truly infectious fashion. Boromir was aching to release a trapped belly laugh, but he was constrained by the other man's presence. The last impression Boromir wished to give was that the ranger was in any way forgiven for his devious ways.

"Oh, I miss this when I am out in the wilds," said Aragorn in an attempt to break the ice between him and his countryman.

"Then perhaps you ought to remain here," suggested Boromir, "in your chamber."

"I am certain that you would wish that," said Aragorn, Estel, Strider, Thorongil…Eru…so many appellations were enough to make Boromir's head spin. The Dúnadan was but one man, and not even an imposing one at that!

"…but one man," Boromir said aloud, musing to himself, no longer even contemplating the easy to dismiss individual now seated opposite him, sipping scalding tea, as though he did not possess pain receptors.

"…your pardon?" Aragorn murmured.

Boromir wondered if he had missed the opening to this sentence, or had the ragged-bearded individual spoken in his own unique abbreviated fashion once again.

"I was thinking of my father," said Boromir.

"Did I provoke such a thought?" Aragorn bluntly enquired.

"No, for I would not contemplate you and he in the same thought. I would not contemplate you at all. My oath is sworn to the Lord of Gondor, and you, sir, are not fit to lace his boots!" Boromir said with utter contempt.

Erestor had already left the chamber, and it was as well, for this was descending into a battle of words, and, as Gandalf had predicted only the previous evening, until Boromir was permitted to vent his spleen, the two mortals never could inhabit the same space.

"You do not know how it was, between Denethor and I." said Aragorn. "You were…"

"Not there?" Boromir anticipated the excuse about to be offered, and now he countered it. "But I was there. I was two years of age when you slunk away under the guise of duty, and never returned!"

"Destiny was upon me, I had to leave Minas Tirith before my identity was discovered," Aragorn said in his own defence.

"Which one…?" Boromir asked as he now placed both palms flat upon the oak table, almost as though he was pinning them down mentally before they assumed a life of their own, and throttled the shaggy individual seated opposite. Grey velvet robes looked askance upon the man, for he had not the quality to display them to any real effect.

"You were but a small child, you could not possibly remember me," said Aragorn.

"Not in any great detail. I have shadowy memories of the Captain from Rohan. My father's Adjutant, and sole confidante," Boromir replied, his tone icy, his eyes like chips of ice, for he had learned that every commander needs someone to hand to whom one may unburden one's thoughts, and fears. Thorongil had been that special one in Denethor's life, a bastion, who stood between Denethor and his severe and disapproving sire, Steward Ecthelion.

"I regretted the deceit then, and I regret it still, but too much depended upon my retaining my anonymity. I only ever esteemed your father, and it was not my intention to wound him by my departure." Aragorn's eyes were welling, and Boromir had no wish to feel empathy with the man. Looking past the pleading eyes that tried to hold his own cold ones, Boromir updated his future king on the state of his one time dearest friend.

"He grows old before his time. His hair is silvering. He is but in the prime of his life for one of his lineage and yet he is worn out, like a horse drawing too great a weight, over too long a period, with no time allocated to regain its strength. He is harnessed to your load, ranger, and he shall drop in your harness 'ere you remove it, and take the load from him. How may I respect you, when I see daily how the burden my father bears is stealing him away from both myself, and my brother? Do you know how it feels to wake every morning to the same thought one fell asleep tussling with the night before? Can you not divine the state of his mind given he sent his heir on this…fool's errand?" Boromir challenged.

"I am not the dishonourable man that you seem to have branded me," said Aragorn, for how could he change this younger man's opinion of him with mere words. Boromir was a man of action, and it would be by both word and deed that Aragorn would win his support. That was for the future, journeying upon the quest they were soon about to undertake, for now humility would serve Aragorn's cause best.

"You had the opportunity when we met that night in the Sanctuary to name yourself to me. You did not take that opportunity. Worse, you did not even acknowledge that we had even met. I still have the wooden sword that you carved for me when I was but a child. I slew dragons with it, before you left, naturally. After you left, my quarry changed somewhat. By then I was practicing against the day I would slay yrc! No longer a game, you see, even then I was attempting to fill your shoes. The shoes perhaps; but the rent you made in Denethor's soul never healed over. I still have that sword. I used it to give my oath to my weeping father on the day his lady left Arda. Quite informally, you understand. I did the deal formally upon the seventh anniversary of my birth. By then I had set aside toys, play, and…hope…_Estel_!"

ooOoo

_The courtyard outside the kitchens_

Pippin was gnawing upon his lower lip, a habit he had formed to combat nervousness; Merry said it made him appear 'shifty'. The youngest of the four hobbits present in Imladris had not wished to abandon his new friend utterly, but had somehow sensed the two men needed to clear the air between them. That sense of foreboding Pippin had felt was akin to the atmosphere in the Shire when a thunder storm was about to break.

"You had better not be eavesdropping, Pippin," said a refined voice by the Took's elbow.

"I am looking out for a friend," said Pip, "if it is any of your business, Frodo Baggins!"

"…'ere, don't' you go disrespecting Mister Frodo like that," said Samwise Gamgee.

"Erm, kindly do not tell me how I may behave, Sam Gamgee. In fact, _none_ of you has the right to tell me what to do," said Pippin.

"Sam was not telling you what to do, Pippin," said Frodo.

"Indeed he was, and as for all this 'Mister Frodo' stuff, well, I call it toadying, for you are no more entitled to that courtesy than any one of us, Frodo, and that is my final word upon the matter!" Peregrine was the most even-tempered of Halflings, but every once in a while he stood up to the others constantly ordering him around, and today was one of those rare occasions.

"Hark at the young 'un," said Merry with a snigger.

Pippin, as he was universally known, was the youngest of Frodo's companions. He was only twenty-eight years old, which was considered very young for a Hobbit.

"And you can stop that, too, Meriadoc Brandybuck, mind your own beeswax," said the vexed Pippin.

"Come away from the doorway," Sam coaxed anew.

"I am waiting for Boromir," said Peregrin Took in his most grown up tone.

"Why?" Frodo asked impatiently. "What does he need with you as a friend? We have no dealings with the men of the south!"

"I am not dealing with a 'man of the south'; I am supporting my friend, just as I did when we you needed help reaching Rivendell, Frodo. I want all of you to leave me alone. I don't want Lord Boromir to think we have been discussing him. Well? Go away. Shoo!" Pippin ordered.

"Come away," said Frodo, "he shall come back when his curiosity is satisfied, for no one topic holds Pippin captive for long!"

"Aye…?" Pippin called after his departing friends. "Well, we'll just see about that, then!"

Well, so much for caring, thought Pip, or lending support to a fellow traveller. Was he the only one who still remembered their pledge to defend the ring bearer? How were they going to do that, if they could not even find it within themselves to feel compassion for the troubled man from Gondor? Well, Pippin was made of sterner stuff. He would not desert his new friend, and certainly not just to be seen to do as he was told.

TBC

For the reviewer Nimbus Llewellyn who enquired as to the origins of the nickname given to Erestor: Snookums, and its varying form, snooks, they originated within my tales, of which I had some 189, reduced over time to 139, dating from Oct 2003, archived under my pen name Evendim, and others under my other pen names Ivriniel, and Eambar. I recently removed the remaining 139 in order to come back to this fandom writing afresh. I could not reply in private as you did not leave me a contact link. I hope this explanation serves.

Evendim


	4. Chapter 4

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Four**

**Of Cabbages and Kings**

**ooOoo**

"_**The time has come," the Walrus said, "to talk of many things; **_

_**Of shoes…and ships…and sealing-wax…of cabbages…and kings"**_

Lewis Carroll

There was much to be said for a day devoid of work, when one could choose how to pass the time, and in whose company. For Boromir this was an alien concept, to have nothing to do, and nowhere to be, and no-one he simply had to see. It was liberating. The man decided he rather liked it. There came a rustling in the grass by his head, and an apple arced through the air which the man deftly caught.

"Thank you, little one," Boromir said politely.

"My pleasure, big man," Pippin replied.

There now commenced the sound of munching, and crunching, interspersed with little gaps of silence, as apple peel was dug daintily from between front teeth, and so it went until a refined little burp announced the hobbit and the apple had merged. Grinning, the man gnawed right to the core of his own fruit, and then he threw away the core, intending it as a treat for some passing bird.

ooOoo

Erestor, weeding his lord's petunias, hissed in pain as something rebounded off his right ear-point. His raven head whipped about so fast that his braids hung in mid-air, the sheer power of the elf lord's glare dragged Glorfindel away from inspecting the insides of his eye lids. Blinking a time or two, the lord from Gondolin demanded:

"What have I _not_ done now?"

Erestor speared a gnawed apple core upon the tines of his garden fork, and uttered a sound that conveyed utter disgust. "_Augh…_!"

"Not my doing," said Glorfindel as he prepared to settle back into inspecting his eyelids, looking like some elitist bird scare, with his battered straw hat at a jaunty angle for to 'shade his fair complexion'.

"I apologize, mellon-nin," said Erestor.

Glorfindel cracked open one periwinkle-blue eye suspiciously. It made him anxious when Erestor apologized, for every elf in Imladris knew their Seneschal could do no wrong!

"Eh…?" Glorfindel squeaked.

"How could you be responsible? There was something _left_ to propel at one's ear-point. With you…_guzzle_…_guzzle_…naught!"

"How big would the debris need to be to strike _your_ ear-point? Even a passing mote of dust…! _Twang_…collision! You have the biggest ears in all of Middle-earth!" Glorfindel muttered.

"I have extremely dainty ear-points!" Erestor said hotly, as one hand stole surreptitiously to check.

"Dear Diary," Glorfindel now alluded to Erestor's habit of writing daily in his journal, recording for posterity, so he claimed, important events, "today a bug broke wind in Lothlórien, not hearsay, one heard it for oneself, all down to the fact one has the biggest ears in all of Middle-earth."

"I detest you when you are smug," said Erestor, as he forked the soil with a sudden burst of vigour.

Moments later a platonic kiss was placed atop the bent raven head, and Glorfindel took up a spare trowel. "Many hands make light work, let us finish this final row, and then I shall brew us some tea," said Glorfindel.

"Chamomile…?" Erestor asked.

"Of course chamomile," said Glorfindel, "with honey."

ooOoo

"Next to the Shire, this is probably my most favourite place in Middle-earth," Pippin declared.

He and the man were sprawled head to head upon a grassy knoll beneath an, admittedly, weaker Quellë sun, soaking in Anor's available rays while they could. The weather in Imladris seemed to be mild no matter the season, and Boromir had heard it said there was a Ring of Power involved; the topic did not grab his attention.

"Where have you travelled, to have chosen these two lands especially?" Boromir asked from curiosity.

"Erm…The Shire, and Imladris," said Pippin.

"Not Rohan, then, or Gondor?" Boromir asked, and the hobbit, now totally attuned to this gentle giant, could _hear_ him grinning.

"Not yet," Pippin confessed, "but these are early days, and who may say where this quest…thingy…may lead us?"

"Mordor…?" Boromir suggested, and then he gasped as a hobbit landed on his chest! "_Oomph_…!"

"I like you," Pippin announced.

"But you could not eat all of me, yes, I have heard it before," Boromir chuckled.

"Yes, very droll, but I was being quite sincere. You are probably the only one here who has not told me to 'grow up', or to 'act my age', and there's a thought, if I ought to 'act my age', why do the other hobbits insist on telling me to 'grow up'? I hate being the youngest!" Pippin groaned.

"It is almost an occupation in itself. Being the youngest…?" Boromir said with understanding, and not a little sympathy.

"How did you know, for that is exactly how it feels?" Pippin asked, and his eyes were sad.

"Because, my own little brother has to put up with much the same grief," said Boromir, "for he is not senior enough to fill my shoes, but he is too senior to be permitted any failure. It is largely a case of our father wishing to both have his cake and eat it."

"Aye, I can see that, for it is the 'grow up', 'act your age' thing all over again. Tell me about him; your brother," said Pippin.

"Well, he is called Faramir," Boromir began.

"Faramir, that has such a lovely sound to it," said Pippin.

"Doesn't it? I have always thought so. He is five years younger than I, and he is the commander of the Ithilien Rangers. His unit are Gondor's Special Forces, they operate covertly in Ithilien."

"Not too young to pull such an important posting, eh?" Pippin divined.

"You possess keen powers of observation, Master Took," said Boromir. "What is your name, exactly, you mentioned it once before, but I cannot recall its full form."

"Peregrin," said the hobbit, "it means 'traveller in strange countries', and that is seriously spooky, for hobbits seldom ever leave the Shire."

"And yet here you are," mused Boromir. "Odd, how fate twists us in the wind, like spent apple blossoms."

"Here, I hope you are not attempting to sound intelligent," Pippin teased.

"You have noticed that I, too, have met with prejudice," Boromir laughed, "which is disheartening, given the reverence these elves display towards Isildur's Heir."

"You just can't bring yourself to say it, can you? The king…?" Pippin said, and he was not mocking, nor even smiling, it was a statement of fact, nothing more.

"He is no king," said Boromir, "at least, not yet. My father has more refinement in his little finger than this 'Strider' possesses overall."

"Gondor has no king; Gondor needs no king, oh, his face when you said that!" Pippin shook his head.

"If he had but shared his lineage with me only the night before, then I would not have been stung into uttering such a statement. Our family has never aspired to the White Throne, as boys we were forbidden to even approach the empty throne, far less dare to sit upon it, and he knows this, for he knew me as a little child. Knew, too, how much I owned my own heritage. That is what hurt me the most. That he did not feel the need to own our once beautiful friendship," said Boromir, and his eyes grew distant, as though he was wandering along memory lane, and so Pip laid completely still, there upon that broad shoulder, and he allowed his friend to revisit his past.

**Flashback**

_Minas Tirith, 2980 Third Age _

Boromir was bored. He had exhausted all his usual pursuits. Turned the pages of his picture books, constructed towers from his pile of building blocks, had even tidied away his toys without being commanded to by his screech-owl of a Nanny. Now he was out of doors, 'taking the air', and how redundant was that, when he must go back inside the huge vaulted chambers of the dusty old Citadel? It all added up to a waste of fresh air in Boromir's opinion.

"There you are, little lord," said a softly spoken newcomer.

"I always is, I is taking air, sir," sighed the little boy, ludicrous in his navy skirts, and too long blonde hair, for the children of the nobility wore skirts, both sexes, until the boys would be 'breeched' at three years of age, and the (bliss!) girly curls would also be shorn! Boromir could not reach his third year soon enough, his enforced appearance was humiliating to so masculine a little boy.

"I brought you something to amuse you," said the enigmatic captain from Rohan, Thorongil was his name, "it is not much, just a wooden sword which I whittled for you."

"…oh…!" The child gasped, and his jade eyes grew wide with surprise. This was his very own sword, something a boy could play with proudly!

"It is not much, a mere token, and…you are crying, little one!"

"It is beautiful. I never shall own anyfing quite so wonderful ever again!" Boromir vowed.

"You humble me," said the astonished man.

"My very own sword, I shall be able to hunt dragons, better than silly building blocks any day," said Boromir.

"Do not hurry to grow up, little one, take it from me, being a grown up is not all you think it shall be," said Thorongil.

"I want to be growed up so that I can help father keep Gondor safe for our king," said Boromir, in utter ignorance that he was addressing this same king, "just as you do, too, Captain Forongil."

ooOoo

**Present**

"Just as you do, too, Captain Forongil," said Boromir, and Pippin let the comment go.

For a time they remained atop their knoll, each alone with his thoughts, and then Boromir asked: "What do you miss most about the Shire, Master Hobbit?"

Pippin thought about this for a moment, and then he chose an object that for him epitomised the bucolic nature of the Shire.

"Cabbages," Pippin announced.

"A fine pair we make, lying in the sunshine, contemplating of all things cabbages…and kings," said Boromir.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Five**

**Mending Bridges**

**ooOoo**

I would love a Boromir/Erestor tête-à-tête. Nothing hot-headed or mean-spirited, but an actual conversation, maybe about Boromir's fears for his people, etc...

You asked, Keeter, and so this is just for you…!

Boromir had always thought it would be wonderful just to have some free time, for to be able to be solitary when one wanted, but after the time spent here in Rivendell he actually was beginning to wish he was back in Gondor, for the silence oft times left too much time for reflection. He was strolling aimlessly along the corridors of the Last Homely House, trying to adjust to the fact there were no walls over large sections of the structures, for the house was open to the elements, and lacked doors; only the velvet hangings that were termed Privacy Curtains, that, too, was strange beyond bearing to a man who had a suite of rooms with sentries on his doors. It was like having one's cage door throw open, and being afraid to step out. Only the night before he had suffered a nightmare, he woke to find himself swimming in the huge bed, having dreamed that he had toppled from his bed chamber balcony into the swift flowing Bruinen. Much of this land enchanted him, but, equally, much of it unnerved him. Sighing, the Gondorian set off once more to explore the sprawling house.

ooOoo

Erestor was feeling the pressure of accommodating such a large group of visitors over such a prolonged period of time. The logistics alone of causing to be laundered, and maintaining, the linen was driving him to hitherto unknown levels of stress. When Erestor was under pressure, his tongue grew ever more acerbic, as the elleth working alongside him today could testify.

"Mistress Elenya, repeat what I have just said to you, if you would be so good," said Erestor.

"I…you were requesting that I…" a rose blush stained the elf maiden's fair face as she failed to bluff her way out of her daydream. It would not do to admit to the pernickety seneschal that her mind had wandered to a fond remembrance of a certain fair ellon. Erestor simply would not comprehend that there could be anything more worthy of her attention than the smooth running of Imladris. Sighing, he tutted in evident disgust, and even went so far as to tap one slipper-clad foot impatiently. This merely fuelled her need to burst into laughter, for Erestor truly took himself much too seriously.

"One comprehends that the 'Mistress of Seamstresses' has much to do in the execution of her duties, but one fails to see what is _so_ captivating your attention this day, as to utterly block all forms of communication," said Erestor. Not for Elrond's Seneschal a simple: 'Where is your mind today, lady?'

"I was musing over the new designs I have been experimenting with for the new pillow shams, my lord," she lied shamelessly. Life, even for one of the firstborn, was simply too short for this ellon's pedantic ways.

"Truly…?" Erestor seemed taken aback by this revelation, and now he looked shamefaced to have been unfairly upbraiding this fine upstanding elleth, which in turn caused her to feel the stirrings of remorse over her too-glib little fib.

"In their infancy, naturally, but when one has refined the basic free forms, one feels confident the result shall justify the wait," said Elenya with a cherubic smile upon her face.

"You have quite restored my flagging faith, my lady, for I had come to the conclusion that I alone strove to uphold the standards here in the Last Homely House," said Erestor, and _lawks_, there were tears in those all consuming eyes.

"Never think it, Lord Erestor, why, even as we speak, I am allowing my creativity free rein, working on a scheme to …marry…the two components in my designs," said Elenya, and this likely was the truest statement from her the entire day.

"I was suggesting that you direct your seamstresses towards the mending of these particular sheets," said Erestor, now back on tack, and without rancour, "

"However did they come to such ruination?" Elenya gasped in horror.

"Hobbit feet," Erestor growled, "clearly they have never encountered _pumice_ in the Shire!"

ooOoo

Boromir was deep in thought, wondering how Gondor fared in his absence, was Faramir well; wondering, too, how long this benighted Quest would keep him from his duty. He ought not to have become entangled with this enterprise. The smug expression upon Strider's face as he pledged his sword, well, the perceived arrogance of the fellow had pitched Boromir head first into open competition with him. Was this the future for Gondor, this constant brinksmanship between the House of Isildur, and the House of Anarion? It hurt the General's head to contemplate such a future, especially as the present was already such a challenge.

Rounding a corner, the man espied a familiar figure counting bundles of crisp, white, linen within a store room. Mischief tugged at the corners of Boromir's mouth as he leaned close and said: "Boo…!"

Imagine if you will, the horror etched upon Boromir's face as Erestor came from the opposite direction, and the dark-haired elleth Boromir had just startled spun around, and Boromir came face to face with a raven-haired beauty, with deep blue eyes. For her part, there was no offence taken, and especially when she saw Boromir make a double take on Erestor, and she realized that the man had believed her to be Elrond's Seneschal! Imagine the nerve of the stranger from Gondor; to bait the erstwhile Erestor! It was hilarious! Even funnier, the mortal had mistaken Erestor for an elleth!

"I beg your pardon, my lady, I mistook you for another," said Boromir with a deep courtly bow.

"So I have gathered, my lord," she replied, dipping into an elegant curtsy, her starlit eyes sparkling with sheer mischief.

"If you hurry," said Erestor, his sharp intellect discerning what had just occurred, "they have a cancellation available in the steam baths, my lord,"

"So naturally you thought of me," said Boromir.

Elenya gasped, for that had indeed been the main thrust of Erestor's comment.

"I thought you might welcome the _diversion_, Captain, for you have clearly little else to do," said Erestor with a lift of one eyebrow.

"Here is a thought, Lord Erestor, I shall accept your kind offer of the use of the bath houses, but only if you join me, and it is Captain-_General_," said Boromir.

"What an inspired suggestion, my lord, for I thought only this morning how stressed Lord Erestor seemed today, here you both are, towels, and…yes…towelling robes, now, be sure that our beloved Seneschal does not allow his innate sense of duty to tear him away from the restorative waters!" Elenya said gleefully.

"Done…! Come with me, Erestor, show me to these acclaimed baths, for I have a dire need of a deep tub, eh, and to have pumice applied to my feet!" Boromir steered the horrified elf ahead of him, looking back to grin conspiratorially at the now giggling elleth. Oh, but only wait until she shared this little jewel of gossip with her friends!

ooOoo

_The Bath Houses of Imladris _

Erestor was _seething_, and that was before he steeped in the steaming hot water! He had been blindsided totally by this infuriatingly smug mortal. Erestor had no time to spare to this foolery, he had a household to harangue…to _organize_…and yet if he had refused to join the Gondorian in the Bath House, it would have been a gross insult, and the outsized male by his side knew this full well!

Elrond would not look favourably upon any studied insult being delivered to his guests; and Erestor's jibe about Boromir benefiting from a bath had gone under the belt in any culture, in any language. The truth was the man had spent so long on the road he had become unkempt. Perfect clean, but his hair needed a barber's attentions, and his beard was in need of serious re-modelling.

Just as they arrived, the dwarves exited en-masse, and Boromir glibly remarked: "You do not suppose the temperature inside is a little extreme? You seem to be shrinking your guests!"

"I am sure your head shall be proof against all that we throw at it. One suspects that nothing can deflate your ego, mortal," said Erestor.

"Perhaps that is why you and I constantly gravitate towards one another?" Boromir suggested.

"The whole point to bathing here is to deflate egos, to bring our guests together in an attitude of co-operation, this is, after all, a Sanctuary," said Erestor.

"I am willing to behave with grace, if you will concede that I am capable of doing so, what say you, Erestor Egnor-ion?"

"Start anew, lay aside the posturing? I can do that, Boromir of the House of Hurin," said Erestor.

"After you, my lord," Boromir said respectfully.

"No, you are the guest, welcome to the Bath Houses of Imladris, Lord Boromir," said Erestor, and crossing over into the foyer they laid aside their antagonism.

TBC

Next we have the discussion between the two, and I wish to thank **Ithil-Valon** for allowing me to borrow her newest own character, **Elenya.**

Evendim


	6. Chapter 6

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Six**

**Eavesdropping **

**ooOoo**

The concluding section of Keeter's requested scene.

Glorfindel had been engaged in his eye-lid inspection once again, seated by the hearth, feet upon the fender and crossed elegantly at the ankles, an empty tea dish in one hand, evidence he had snuck in a brew of chamomile whilst Erestor was occupied elsewhere; _had_ been engaged in eye-lid inspection, because he now was inclining his left ear-point towards the gaggle of seamstresses working around their overseer, the beautiful elleth, Elenya.

"Why would I invent such a tale?" Elenya was asking, her voice as full of mirth as the Bruinen tributary at its source where it percolated over pebbles.

"Lord Erestor, being hauled off to the Bath Houses, it is too delicious for words," said Anarya, cousin of Elenya.

"Not hauled, precisely, but definitely coerced! I never have seen an ellon so ill-disposed to being…steamed," Elenya laughed.

"Is there an adequate supply of towels there, do you suppose, ladies? Ought we to re-stock the Bath Houses with the newly re-worked towels, there by the settle?" Anarya asked with mischief in her voice.

"Fear not, little elleth," said Glorfindel as he rose to his feet and performed an all over body stretch, "Glorfindel to the rescue, once more!"

"No Balrog threatens us this afternoon, my lord," said Elenya, "merely a mortal."

"Those with one brief life to preserve fight more fiercely than we immortals," said Glorfindel as he lifted the stacked towels and strolled purposefully from the kitchens.

"There he goes, off to eavesdrop, lurking in the steam!" said one matronly elleth with a chuckle. "I wonder where he was lurking just before the Balrog struck?"

Glorfindel tossed his golden mane, and strode off down the garden paths, headed for the Sanctuary's therapeutic pools housed within the ornate Bath Houses. Much better to be out of doors, soothed by birdsong, than indoors listening to the _cackle_ of geese!

ooOoo

Boromir closed his eyes, and eased his shoulders under the almost too-hot water; bliss. Had he known this facility even existed he would have been here on a regular basis, for he had arrived in Rivendell covered in bruises, and with several cuts and abrasions, a muscle or two strained, and even a warg bite he had been obliged to cauterize with a heated dagger. Denethor had to have been a stranger to reason to send him alone into the wilderness, without even a reliable chart to find what may well have been a realm fallen into the mists of time. Eru knew, Boromir did not fully expect the land to be a reality, far less a well-guarded, sophisticated, thriving society.

"That wound is in need of a healer's attention," said Erestor, and Boromir fanned his long blond lashes open, and turned his head to discover a raven head bent to examine the bite on Boromir's arm through the crystal clear, mineral rich water.

"Yes, I know," Boromir replied casually, "but it shall no doubt right itself over time. I have the sort of constitution that lends itself to self-healing."

"Who told you that, one wonders," Erestor mumbled as he now reached to grasp Boromir's arm and raise it from the water the better to examine it.

"Oh, not me, I am not quite as conceited as you imagine me to be. Master Caranthir, it was he who said I had remarkable powers of recovery. He is our premier healer, a most learn-ed man, of great re-known amongst the realms of men," said Boromir.

"Nevertheless, and with all due respect to your eminent healer, I shall steer you before Lord Elrond upon our return to the Last Homely House. He shall have some unguent that shall aid with the pain, and the healing process," said Erestor.

"Hanon le," Boromir said with a dip of his head.

"I did wonder," said Erestor, "whether you understood Estel was ordering the prince-ling to be seated after his untimely outburst in Council."

"I have no real talent for the languages of the elves, but I recall the basics, and those passages I learned by rote. He does not seem to exert much authority over the prince with the quicksilver temper, either."

"Oh, Estel does indeed possess the ability to command; when he chooses to impose his will," said Erestor.

"I am over that unfortunate meeting; it was the shock of being brought face to face with the one who is destined to be our king. I had assumed the man was little more than a romantic legend, one of many we cling to in the south, just to keep hope alive," said Boromir.

"Is that what the return of the king shall mean to you?" Erestor asked as he lifted a finely milled bar of soap, scented with lilies of the valley, and began to soap Boromir's back and shoulders after lifting aside the General's blond hair.

"…pardon?" Boromir asked in a voice that had somehow risen in register.

Erestor, however, was all business. This had to be the custom in Imladris, to share conversation, and soap, as one took the benefit of the waters. Hey-ho, Boromir was no shrinking violet; he had soaped a back or two over time in the communal baths of the barracks, and had suffered the courtesy to be returned. There was no reason to suppose more than a clean back was on offer, if only Erestor did not so resemble the captivating Lady Elenya!

"I, too, have served," said Erestor, "I was a Brigade Commander in the Battle of the Last Alliance. I am merely here in the capacity of…how do you couch the term...a Shield Brother. That is my role at this time, you need not fear for your _virtue_, mortal!"

"My virtue was stolen away many moons ago, by a woman many years my senior, who taught me that I am secure enough in my manhood not to shy from a well intentioned helping hand. I have no reserve where Bath Houses, and Shield Brothers, are concerned. I shall even return the favour, but you have now piqued my curiosity, tell me, my lord, you saw _Elendil_?"

ooOoo

Haste makes waste; so Elrond would preach, as he spent hours…days…over illuminating a single capital letter, couched within the body of a scroll. Leaning upon the ledge of his custom-built scribe's desk, standing, of course, never seated, his stylus _just_ _so_, his ink pot precisely where he wished it to be placed. Such a surfeit of patience had often exacerbated the more proactive Glorfindel of the House of Golden Flowers. He was, as Elrond would point out when he fidgeted as Elrond executed impeccable feats of calligraphy, like a cat on hot tiles.

Well, the floor tiles were genuinely hot this afternoon, and Glorfindel was certainly fidgeting, for Snarky Cat was not dancing upon the tiles, he was steeping in the hot pools with the mortal he professed to loathe, and was that _soap_ he was reaching towards? Skidding upon the tiles, Glorfindel performed a madcap shuffling dance to bring his knees together, eyes watering, hair askew, and those benighted hobbits had been in here, for no other race would contemplate eating bananas in the bath! Erestor somehow had retained his composure as he caught the flicker of movement up in the viewing gallery. The Great Blond Streak of Aggravation was clearly spying; why else would he be skulking about up there, one blue eye pressed to a knot hole in the wooden panelling? Perhaps it would do the fool good to be tormented a little. Glorfindel, above all elves, ought to know that Erestor was incapable of indulging in any sort of intimacy; he it was who had once joked to Elrond that Erestor even wore gloves when he stuffed fowl for the oven. Why, then, the need to spy upon Erestor and the mortal taking the waters, engaged in innocent conversation, unless…ah, Glorfy, the Slayer of the Balrog, was jealous.

"Elendil lived in Imladris during the entire period it took to raise the army that marched against the Dark One. I knew his sons also, Isildur, and Anarion, and all of Elendil's kin. I had not considered it, but of course you must be fascinated by this revelation," said Erestor. Knowing Glorfindel was battling a watery eye to continue watching, Erestor handed the soap to Boromir, who took it without comment, much too eager to hear of his kin to be embarrassed as he now lifted Erestor's wet hair away from his shoulders, and began to soap Erestor's neck and back.

"He is reputed to have been more than seven foot tall," said Boromir, "is this true, Lord Erestor?"

"He was born in 3119 of the second age, you know, and yes, he was as tall as you say, two and a half _rangar_ tall, or seven foot ten inches, if you prefer," said Erestor as he took back the soap, and, knowing full-well the effect his action would have on Glorfindel, dropped it into the water!

"Aiee…! Butter fingers!" said Erestor, and Boromir took a deep breath, and ducked under, chivalrously retrieving it.

"Thank you, it is time to leave this pool, for one may be overcome by the heat here, a cooler pool, then, and then a time drying by the fire is advisable," said Erestor.

As the two companions climbed up the steps from the pool and wound towels about their waists, thundering footsteps could be heard above, someone galloping on the gallery floor, and the muffled screech of pain, and then a new rhythm, a sort of step, hop, step hop, and then…silence.

"Come, my lord, as you can hear, the cooler pools are _quite_ near by," Erestor said with a grin. Time and plenty, if they strolled, to allow Glorfindel time to enter the water of the follow-on pools, and even attempt to pretend he had been there for some time. Boromir was oblivious to all this intrigue, he only wished to engage Erestor in the tales of his ancestors, being clean, and relaxed, was merely a benefit.

ooOoo

Glorfindel belly-flopped into the deep, tepid, water and then thrashed frantically to reach the seats around the pool, located under the water level, and there he sat, shoulders peeping above the tepid water, breathing like a galloped horse, hair plastered to his face, waves, far less ripples, flowing over the surface of the mineral rich water. As the two other bathers entered from the arched doorway, Glorfindel swept back his hair, closed his eyes, and pushed from his mind the searing pain in his left sole from that splinter he had taken, racing from the gallery to this room to be here when Snookums arrived with the mortal. Now, act nonchalantly, he told himself.

"Why, Glorfindel, what a pleasant surprise," Erestor purred. "One did not expect you to be here, and you must be reduced to a prune, for we were a long time in the hot pool, were we not, General Boromir?"

"Aye, we were, my lord," said Boromir as he dropped his towel and lowered himself into the much cooler water.

"We were just discussing Elendil, and his sons," said Erestor as he joined Boromir in the water, taking the space next to the mortal upon the side seat.

"Imagine," said Glorfindel, feigning disinterest.

"Any anecdote would be welcomed, my lord," said Boromir.

"You saw the shards of Elendil's sword, Narsil; it was made by Telchar, of Nogrod, probably during the fourth or fifth centuries of the First Age. Telchar was a Dwarf of Nogrod in the Blue Mountains, and one of the greatest smiths in the history of Middle-earth," said Erestor, and he and Boromir went on to discuss Elendil, the one known as 'Elf Friend', while Glorfindel lay there becoming increasingly chilled, for he was not in the pool to cool down to begin with, but as he listened to Erestor, to his passion for the days gone by, he was reminded just how Erestor had suffered when, as a young elf, he alone of his family had survived the burning of Eregion. The loss had resulted in his loss of speech for many years, as he shut down all communication with his people, and only as he took part in the building of Imladris did he gradually return to the self-assured elf he was today.

Realizing just how ludicrous his actions had been, Glorfindel left the pool, pulling on a robe, and touching Erestor atop his head as he made his way to the hall of fire to dry off. He knew that he jealously guarded his friendship with Erestor, knew, too, there was nothing to be jealous about, for Erestor refused to love ever again, for the pain of loss was too great. Erestor was content with his lot, he took pride in discharging his duty, to his land, and to his lord, and he had Glorfindel for the emotional needs in his life, and as to physical ones, why, those he chose to ignore. A strange symbiosis had formed between the two elves, and nothing, and no being, ever would come between them.

"We have much in common, Erestor," said Boromir, as he tried to end their lessening antagonism, once and for all, "we both have had our lives reduced to duty, without an opportunity for love, or for children, our paths have been marked out for us, for this reason alone we ought to be able to form an alliance."

"If you offer me your hand," said Erestor, "I would willingly take it in a Warrior's handclasp."

"Hail, Erestor of Imladris!" Boromir said as he held out his hand.

"Hail, Boromir of Gondor!" Erestor replied as he clasped the mortal's outstretched hand.

"Well met," said Boromir, "A new alliance, between an elf and a man!

"Indeed!" Erestor replied.

ooOoo

_That night in the Kitchens _

Erestor sat down to his darning, and Glorfindel set aside writing in his journal.

"What have you to say for yourself, Glorfy?" Erestor asked.

"I have no idea what you can mean, Snookums," said Glorfindel as he reached to stir the logs in the hearth.

"He wished to end the feud between us, you great blond streak of aggravation," said Erestor. "I have no carnal appetite, you know this."

"I thought no such thing!" Glorfindel denied.

"Yes you did, for why else would you break into a gallop to beat us to the cool pools? Fetch me some astringent, some cotton wool, and a bandage. That splinter has got to come out!" Erestor opined.

"Your ears could hear a gnat strike a fly screen here in Imladris from the remove of Galadriel's own Flet!"

"Likely the gnat would be fleeing from Galadriel," Erestor snorted.

"When you remove the splinter, may I have some soothing tea?" Glorfindel wheedled.

"Anything you desire," said Erestor, and he paused to nip through the darning wool with his even white teeth, "so long as it comes from a tea caddy!"

TBC

Next: Boromir has an appointment with Elrond to have his wound seen to, and Pippin lends his support!

Thanks to all who have reviewed, and a special welcome to talking cockerel! **Elenya** is the intellectual property of **Ithil**-**Valon**, borrowed with her kind permission.

Evendim


	7. Chapter 7

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien _

**Chapter Seven**

**Healings Hands**

**ooOoo**

"I heard you were here, big man," said Pippin, "and so I came to keep you company, while you were waiting, to see Lord Elrond?"

"That was a kind thought, Master Took, for I hate Leeches!" Boromir growled, referring of course to the Healer in the room beyond, this name, leech, for Boromir, encompassed all of the healing profession, and was not a sleight against the Lord of Imladris specifically.

Not fully comprehending this, Pippin nodded his head vigourously and agreed. "Slimy, aye, and woe betide if ye happen to be skinny dipping in the river!"

"They are forever sucking one's life blood out of one, _ugh_!" Boromir shuddered, he hated when Master Caranthir, Warden of the Houses of Healing, declared he needed to be bled, and the apprentice would rush over with a blade and a bowl. "They are trained to torture from early in their training!"

"And the only way to get the beasties off is to shake salt over them!" Pippin said knowledgeably, just as Elrond came to the open aperture, and signalled that Boromir ought to enter his study.

"Salt…?" Boromir mused.

"Salt…!" Pippin confirmed.

"Where does one acquire a salt cellar big enough?" Boromir mumbled as he eyed Elrond.

"Eh…? Leeches are only about…yon size!" said Pippin, measuring with finger and thumb about one inch apart.

"Well, a hobbit healer _would_ be smaller, proportionately," said Boromir.

"Here, are we talking about the same thing? I am taking about wee slimy beasties, black, slug-like?" Pippin asked.

"Ah…! _Not_ healers, then, that might explain the confusion over the salt!" Boromir allowed.

Pippin's frown was evidence he had now lost the plot entirely.

"Here, you must be more sick than I thought, in ye go, let the Lord take a look at ye," Pippin gave Boromir a hefty shove in the small of his back, propelling the mortal into the room, and then he himself strolled in looking like butter would not melt in his mouth!

Elrond turned around to view the commotion, his mouth set in a disapproving line. Pippin gave him a cheeky grin, intended to diffuse the situation.

"You brought a friend," Elrond observed.

"He brought himself," Boromir clarified, not wishing to give the impression that Gondor's Captain General needed to have his hand held by a hobbit.

"He can speak for himself, too!" Pippin interjected.

Boromir was shown to a chaise, and was requested to be seated, Pippin perched upon a footstool, watching with interest as Elrond, hands already washed and primed, eased aside the man's shirt to inspect the wound upon Boromir's arm. His friend's sharp intake of breath only drew the hobbit closer, and, with the angry-looking warg bite exposed, Pippin gave his layman's opinion quite succinctly: "Mammy-Daddy, I'll bet that hurts, eh?"

"Master Took, if you would be so good as to reel your neck in?" Boromir hissed.

"Eh…? Oh, aye, look, I am going back over to the stool!" Pippin said, indicating the footstool upholstered with one of Arwen's earlier _petit-point_ experiments.

Elrond looked like he had been pushed right to the edge of a precipice, and was teetering on the brink, and so Boromir took a steadying breath, and rode out the wave of pain, and nausea, as the elf lord swabbed out the deep wound with hot water and astringent herbs. This action alone could not affect a cure, and there was no denying the soldier was in need of expert help. Elrond worked in silence, it seemed he was concentrating deeply, and probing for debris, which action caused Boromir to flinch and close his eyes tightly.

"I should prefer you to be asleep as I do this," said Elrond.

"No, I do not wish to be sedated, the pain I shall bear, have no fear, but I do not wish to be rendered insensible," said Boromir.

"Afraid we shall try to prise Gondor's secrets from you?" Elrond said with a wry smile.

"It had crossed my mind," said Boromir, "given the low esteem in which my land is held here."

"One had no idea one has been such a poor host," said Elrond with a shallow bow.

"I am not here to be cosseted, had I wished to be treated with deference, I would have remained at home. I came seeking counsel, instead I was confronted by a shrill prince-ling, and the alleged long forgotten heir to the White Throne," said Boromir.

"Do you doubt Estel's credentials?" Elrond asked as he worked diligently over the now blood-soaked wound.

"What would any mortal bearing the name _Estel_ have to do with our land?" Boromir asked.

"It means…"

"By your leave, Lord Elrond, I know what it means, and long have we been without hope! We have managed thus far, for he has shown no interest in his people ever since he left Minas Tirith in the year two-nine-eighty. Why is it so hard for you to understand my disappointment in him? Am I supposed to throw open my arms in greeting, hail-brother-in-arms-well-met? He is no blood kin of mine, and every man under my command has to _earn_ my respect!" Boromir said bluntly.

"Not this one," said Elrond, "he might wish to have your respect, but he does not need it! He shall claim his crown when the time is deemed to be right!"

"Deemed…! Ah, yes, when the wizard decides it is time! Do we need a king who turns to a wizard for instruction in kingship? I think not! My father would reject this ranger out of hand, and rightly so, for his mind is not his own, it would seem!" Boromir now jerked free, breaking Elrond's contact. "I shall trust to The One to heal my wound, he knows my heart is true, he shall aid me in my recovery, for this…place…is unwelcoming to one of my race!" Boromir now strode from the Study without a backwards glance. Elrond seemed genuinely stricken that Boromir should feel so set apart from the other members of the fellowship. Turning to Pippin for some sort of explanation, the Lord of Imladris was just in time to witness the edge of a trailing scarf as it disappeared around the corner!

ooOoo

"He hurt you, didn't he?" Pippin said gently as he sat beside Boromir on the seats beneath the Council Gazebo.

"I have taken many hurts, little hobbit, what is one more?" Boromir said with a weary smile.

"No, not that kind of hurt, the kind of hurt you feel here," and Pippin pressed one spread hand over his chest.

"You are one very astute Halfling," said Boromir.

"Gandalf calls me 'fool of a Took', it hurts me here, that is how I know how you are feeling, big man," said Pippin.

"He has a high opinion of himself," said Boromir, "my father, does not share it, I assure you."

"Perhaps he has a point," Pippin sighed.

"Gandalf's head has a point," said Boromir, "for why else would he wear such a ridiculous hat?"

"Heh, you really are quite amusing you know!" Pippin declared.

"For a man, do you mean? That is what is written across the faces of these elves when they regard me." Boromir said bitterly.

"No, actually, I meant for someone built like you, you are surprisingly gentle. Strider was always _crabbit_…sharp…of temper with my cousin Merry, and me, on the road from Bree to here. Not like he was with Frodo, oh no, nor Sam, but Sam never says or does anything out of place. Minds his p's and q's, does Sam, always deferring to the gentry!" Pippin said with hurt in his voice.

"I know them not, I thought Frodo to be condescending, the others made no real impression upon me," said Boromir, "perhaps that is because in you I have the ideal ambassador for your race, eh, little one? I have no need of the other's company."

"I am glad you are here, I really thought we would go back to the Shire when we had delivered the ring to Rivendell. I am not sure I can do this quest thing, I am slow of foot and wit, and am often told, a hindrance. I would not wish to be the cause of any of the fellowship getting hurt!" Pippin confided.

"Our fate is already mapped, little one, do not trouble yourself to seek out trouble; trouble shall find you, such is my experience," said Boromir.

"Aye, most likely, either way, we none of us hobbits has the skill to defend ourselves, Strider gave us each an elvish dagger, but what good is that without some knowledge of its use?" Pippin said crossly.

"That much I may do, little one, while we waste our time here I might as well teach all of you swordsmanship," Boromir said with a grin.

"Ah, no, not with that sore arm you won't," said Pippin. "Of course, if you would go back to Lord Elrond, and let him heal your arm, why, _then_ you could teach us, eh?"

"Fool of a Took?" Boromir laughed aloud. "More fool that wizard, if that is how he thinks of you! Very well, for you, and your kinsmen, I shall brave the scowling eyebrows!"

TBC

There is an essay on my profile page that I should like to recommend, Evil Never Sleeps, by an author who wishes to remain anonymous, and whose short story I was delighted to receive as a gift. Boromir and Theodred feature; it is published there with the writer's knowledge, more details on my profile.

Evendim


	8. Chapter 8

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Eight**

**Hobbit Forming**

ooOoo

Boromir sat patiently upon a boulder, waiting. He was on the verge of walking away when two hobbits came by, both looking sheepish, both dragging elvish daggers.

"Sorry, Big Man," Pippin said with a downcast expression. "Frodo wasn't interested, and so, naturally, Sam wasn't interested either."

"But you came, and Master Meriadoc, and as my father always says, better two eager volunteers, than a hundred called to the draft," said Boromir. Truth be told, the Gondorian was grateful that the sullen little Ring Bearer was not interested in learning sword skills. Boromir likely would have crossed swords with that one in more ways than one. "Right, present arms…!" Boromir ordered, and both hobbits set their swords down upon the ground, and held out their hands, palms up. Boromir slapped his thigh, and burst out laughing!

"No," he laughed, 'hold out your weapons."

"Why didn't he just say so?" Merry asked aloud.

"Hush, don't you dare give cheek, Merry Brandybuck!" Pippin warned his kinsman.

"Now, let me see, what have we here?" Boromir mused.

"Piglets, isn't it obvious? Two plump porkers," Merry snickered. "Ow!"

"Sorry," Pippin apologized, "…he thinks he's funny!"

"I have no quarrel with you both laying these lessons aside," said Boromir, "for the biggest joke is that some _fool_ expected you to defend yourself with this…pig iron!"

"I gave the daggers to the _periain_," said a softly accented voice.

"There, you see? I knew there had to be a fool involved somewhere, for these could not cut a cabbage, far less orc-kind, and you were beset by the _Nazgûl_? Little wonder Master Baggins was wounded, for you gave him little with which to defend himself," said Boromir.

"I gave them what I had to give them," said Aragorn.

"So, the northern rangers routinely lug a sack full of blunt elvish daggers about with them on patrol. How fascinating. This one is better suited to you, Peregrin Took, swap with your kinsman. When we return to the Last Homely House I shall ask Lord Erestor to send these to the forge. For now, and until you have learned the basics, blunt is most definitely best. Another reason not to have given out these weapons, Ranger," said Boromir, "their total lack of skill!"

"In your opinion," said Aragorn.

"Yes, well, given that I have filled your boots these many years, I am eminently qualified to offer up an opinion. Is there not somewhere else you ought to be? The Bath Houses…? Minas Tirith…?" Boromir asked without humour.

Aragorn took a deep breath, bit back any reply, and walked away.

"I think you might have upset Strider," Merry opined.

"Obviously, for he did what he does best," said Boromir, "he walked away!"

"Erm, if you have changed your mind, Big Man, about the lessons? We will understand, won't we Merry?" Pippin prompted.

"I was looking forward to this," Merry said honestly, "I'm bored doing nothing all day long!"

"Come then, little ones, first the basics, for the best of swordsmen must begin with the basics," said Boromir.

The afternoon wore on, and the two hobbits worked diligently to learn the various stances and positions, they found the time fairly flew in, but when Pippin caught Boromir mid-wince, he nudged Merry and whispered: "Follow my lead!"

"Why…?" Merry asked.

"Just because…!" Pippin hissed, _sotto_ _voce_. "Ow! I have a cramp! I don't think I can go on with this, Boromir!"

"Forgive me," Boromir apologized, "I did not think!"

"No, no, that's fine, just a wee twinge," said Pippin, and as Merry was about to say his cousin was telling fibs, Pippin trod heavily on Merry's toes! "See, Merry has cramp, too! I imagine that's because we are unused to sword play!"

"Most likely," Boromir agreed, "for my part, my arm is beginning to hurt also, and I believe we have worked long enough today."

"Eh…? Oh…!" Merry finally caught on to Pip's reasoning.

"Besides," said Pip, "it has to be time to wash for dinner, eh?"

"In elvish time zones do you mean?" Boromir asked.

Merry's stomach growled, long and low, like a hen house watch dog spying a fox. "On hobbit time zones!" he grinned.

"Aye, there goes old faithful, growling for to be fed," Pippin teased.

"It seems like no time since lunch," said Boromir, "I am going to gain weight at this rate!"

"Is that bad?" Merry asked.

"It is when one must fit into one's armour, Master Meriadoc, for I am not going to waste one minute more on this benighted quest than I must!" Boromir vowed.

"I wish we never had gotten involved," Pippin admitted.

"We got caught up, Pip, nothing we can do about it now!"

"Caught up on the road...," Pippin mused.

"On the road to where…?" Boromir asked.

"Mushrooms," Pippin sighed as he took the man's sword-callused hand, "on the road to mushrooms."

ooOoo

That night Boromir was once more alone on the terraces, strolling, for his mind was too full of concerns to permit him to rest. He saw a shadowy figure stand forth from the walkway ahead and knew instinctively it had to be Aragorn. This was a most unwelcome development, for the General had hoped to spend an hour alone before re-trying to take some rest. If he and this man sparred now, the entire night would be blighted for sleep.

"Why did you follow me here?" Boromir was at his most forthright when tired.

"I did not," said Aragorn.

"Ah, our meeting was just another coincidence, then?" Boromir snorted.

"Unless you came to visit my mother's grave," said Aragorn.

"If you like," said Boromir. "Shall you ever return the favour, do you think?"

"I was saddened to hear of the passing of Lady Finduilas. She was a wonderful mother," said Aragorn, dipping his head in tribute.

"For the short time she was blessed with the company of the sons she bore," said Boromir.

"I, too, grew up for the most part motherless," said Aragorn.

"I stubbed my toe yester-even, your turn, I believe," said Boromir.

"You mock me," said Aragorn.

"Your mother had the luxury of choice," said Boromir. "For myself, I had five more wonderful years in our mother's presence than my brother, and for that I am most grateful. My father was robbed of his soul mate, without her to light his days he fell into darkness. His life is filled with duty; your duty. Forgive me for my lack of sensitivity."

"We ought not to be at odds," said Aragorn, "we are on the same side!"

"I am on the side of Gondor, friend, and I am here as her representative, despite having received no invitation to this…Council!" Boromir spat.

"Still, here you are, you cannot claim to have no say in the choices made here with regard to the one ring," said Aragorn.

"Shall we send to Theoden-king? Or shall Gandalf speak for him, as he seems to believe he knows what is best for all the sons of men!" Boromir raged.

"You are distraught, my lord, perhaps some rest would balance your mood," said Aragorn.

"What do you see when you look in the glass of a morning, Aragorn? Do you see a man, become elf-kind; or an elf, with facial hair? I do not recognise the great captain who fought the Corsairs at Umbar; I see a pawn of that scheming wizard, and a man who has ducked his responsibilities for far too long. If you wish to re-gain my respect, you will honour my father, your Steward…ah, or not, for he is the Steward of the House of Anarion, not of Isildur, and so for Denethor you _have_ no claim upon his loyalty. Look to your roots, son of Gondor, remember which people you represent here, and where it is that you owe your service. Remember, too, whose sons bleed, and die, to secure the land you do not even wish to recognize. I am sworn to service; my sword, my life, _these_ I have vowed to wield for Gondor, but my heart is my father's; to me _he_ is the true Lord of Gondor…Ranger!"

Boromir turned upon his heel, and strode back the way he had come, his heart aching, his eyes welling with tears of frustration, for he had so admired this man as a little boy, and the apparent contempt in which Aragorn seemed to hold Boromir's land, and his people, and especially his father, hurt like a knife slid under his ribcage. Why could Aragorn not own his heritage, and join forces with his own kind? Boromir thought of Faramir, risking his life daily in the wilds of Ithilien, all for an absent king who took his instruction from an elf lord and a wizard. Denethor's paranoia was well founded it seemed. He was right to be suspicious of Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer, and although his suspicion oft times bordered upon obsession, Boromir began to see it also likely was born of frustration. For what could Denethor do to redress the situation? There was no heir to the house of Anarion. Denethor was charged to hold the land by rod and rule; he was not a substitute for the king, he was merely the servant of the king, _Arandur_, and so when, if, this reluctant ranger ever approached the city gates, his father would be obliged to stand aside and bid him enter. Any other course of action would be a violation of his oath as Steward, and Denethor would never sully his vow, sworn upon his sword, as a true knight of Gondor.

"There you are," said Pippin, "you missed the minstrel singing in the Hall of Fire."

"My mind is not enough at peace to appreciate anything elvish tonight. I am trying to maintain my decorum as a lord of Gondor. I would say I owe as much to my host, except I am not a guest, I am a gate-crasher, and the horse lords of Rohan are not even accorded _that_ mean status. Men were not summoned to this Council, and why would they be? For it is the race of men who are dying to hold off the filth of Mordor, whilst the Eldar, and the Dwarves, and that sanctimonious Istar, all gather to decide our fate! I tell you, little one, my heart is heavy, and my soul is fractured, I want to be back in my homeland, in the company of my sire, and my brother, and yet I am sworn to protect a Halfling who looks at me with disdain in his eyes!" Boromir whispered.

"You are not to heed Frodo. He is not typical of my folks. He has been privileged for most of his life, and he is even uppity with Merry and me! You are not doing this for Frodo. You are doing this because it is the right thing to do. You will always do what you believe to be right. Even if your feelings towards this Strider are not totally fair, you are only feeling what you do because you are hurting for your father, and your brother. Who can blame you for being a good son, and a good brother? Dry your eyes, here, my kerchief is clean, and never forget that you are here tonight because you _cared_! I have never met anyone like you. You would lay down your life for the common good, and call it your duty! That breaks me, Boromir of Gondor!" Pippin said in awe.

TBC

_Periain_: Plural of hobbit


	9. Chapter 9

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Nine**

**There and Back Again**

**ooOoo**

Boromir had never managed to settle in the chambers he had been allocated in Rivendell. Used to a city of stone, and despite being informed upon many occasions that the borders of the elven realm were well guarded, he could not reconcile to the open aspect of the Last Homely House. He had been under Master Elrond's roof a full week before he stopped sleeping with his sword near to hand.

"Can I come in?" Pippin called through the privacy curtain, and Boromir grinned.

"_May_ you? Most certainly, but do remember to wipe your feet!" Boromir called back.

"Eh…? Oh, that's just hilarious!" Pippin replied as he fought his way passed the burgundy velvet. "I hate these curtain thingies, it feels like pushing past Erestor, he has even draped the doors to look like him in his robes! Ah! There you are," Pippin said as he straightened his waistcoat and shook out his hair.

"I always was here!" Boromir laughed. "Or so it seems, has it truly been just a month since I rode into this…Sanctuary!"

"I know what you mean, I miss the openness of my folks, the lack of standing upon ceremony, and I spend half my time here working out how I should speak, who I should speak to, and what I should speak about when I've worked out the other parts. I am just glad I can be myself with you. I am scared. Is that okay, big man?" Pippin asked with wide eyes, and trembling lips.

"Absolutely," Boromir replied as he perched upon his bed and indicated Pippin should be seated by his side. "I have seen battle fields littered with men who forgot how to fear; for when one surrenders fear, one surrenders hope. Fear gives a man an edge in battle. Never forget that, little hobbit," said Boromir.

"I wish…I wish…" Pippin shook his head, seemingly tongue-tied of a sudden.

"That you never had come here?" Boromir asked.

"That we had left Farmer Maggot's vegetable patch be!" Pippin said sadly.

"A Hobbit must do, what a Hobbit must do, in all ways that count, to thy inner Hobbit stay true!" Boromir teased.

"Aye, something like that, for hobbits it is 'see vegetables, must have vegetables'. Merry and me ought never to have been there that day, and see where it got us!" Pippin now gazed past the open walkways at the Bruinen, and the gardens, and shook his head. "It should be a wee glimpse of the world beyond, this place, but there is something in the air, d'you ken what I mean?"

"Aye," Boromir grinned, "I ken!"

"What then? What _is_ it that makes it impossible to drop your shoulders, or to stop grinding your back teeth, here?" Pippin asked sincerely.

"Politics," said Boromir, "and how we are to make this Quest a success with each member of the fellowship only out to serve their own interests, I have no idea. I do include myself in this one-upmanship. I am looking to Gondor's interests, as much as any other member of the fellowship is minding out for their own race. But there is an old saying, that if a house be divided, that house cannot stand. I cannot help but feel this is a foolhardy venture."

"Well, united or divided, we are all going to Mordor, and there is little we can do is there?" Pippin asked.

"I have never broken my oath, little one, and I may not begin to do so now," said Boromir.

"No, I can see that, and for what it is worth, wherever you go, I am going too!" said Pippin.

"Why, little one, I am touched!" Boromir replied.

"_I'd_ be touched, not to hide behind the broadest fellow out there!" Pippin said, hiding his true feelings behind a healthy dose of 'cheek'.

"Horses for courses, as my father would say, never haul a plough with a thoroughbred, and never jump a wall with a carthorse!" Boromir mused.

"No hiding behind the elf, then, eh?" Pippin giggled.

"Especially not when he is turned side-on!" Boromir advised.

"Here, that's funny, not when he is turned side on, I must remember that!" Pippin said as he wiped his eyes.

"Please do; just do not repeat it, he and I did not get off to the best possible start!" Boromir said wearily. "Why is it so much easier to cultivate enemies than friends?"

"Evil abounds, but friends must be found?" Pippin shrugged. "Here, that sounded quite clever for me, some of you must be rubbing off onto me!"

"Let us hope it is not just the fairy dust with which they so liberally coat this place, for it feels to me that beneath the glitter there is a great decay," said Boromir.

"Like biting into a juicy apple and finding a maggot!" Pippin agreed.

Boromir snickered, "Worse than that, half a maggot!"

"Aye, and that has happened a time or two," Pippin admitted.

"Have you come to help me pack? For a soldier, there is a prescribed way to arrange one's gear, so as to get the maximum into the small pack we carry," said Boromir.

"I see the sense of that," Pippin nodded.

"Really; I had expected you to be quite the rebel, ditching the necessaries for a turnip or two!" Boromir teased.

"Carrots, maybe," said Pippin. "What is this odd contraption?"

"A tinder box, it creates a spark with which to light one's fire," said Boromir.

"And cook one's carrots," Pippin concluded.

"You are a fast study, Master Took."

"Oh, I certainly am, where eating is concerned. Now, what is this?" Pippin enquired peering down a brazen eyepiece, exposing Boromir to the opposite view, a huge, roving, jade eyeball.

"That is a sextant. We soldiers use it to plot our course utilizing the stars," said Boromir.

"Well, there's an idea, eh? Hoof pick? Erm…we are _walking_ to Mordor, Big Man!"

"One never knows what one might need. You might take a stone between those hairy toes, and I might need to resort to my trusty hoof pick," Boromir laughed.

"Jealousy gets you nowhere!" Pippin sniffed, but there was a definite twinkle in his green eyes.

"Neither does ill-preparedness," said Boromir, "and so we must all of us carry dry kindling in our packs, to light fires as we travel, as a back-up in case of bad weather, and wet fuel."

"Won't that be cumbersome?" Pippin asked.

"Yes, but much more preferable than the alternative," said Boromir, carefully baiting a hook.

"Which is?" Pippin asked.

"Burning the hobbits…!" Boromir laughed, and Pippin squealed like a girl, and danced away out of reach.

And so it went, each item individually examined, explained, and packed. Two friends, passing a long, slow, afternoon until the dinner gong would '_boing'_ as Pippin put it as he _shimmied_ across the floor, 'being' the gong, much to Boromir's amusement!

ooOoo

Leaving the bedchamber, they went out into the gardens, intending to go and view the giant carp in the garden pools, but more likely it was their need to be away from the main house, and out in the always moderate air.

"That's another thing I find disturbing. Why is it never too hot or too cold here, but, like the porridge in the fairy tales, just right?" Pippin asked.

"What is a…fairy tale?" Boromir asked.

"Aye, right, you likely had more 'improving' books as a wee boy. Just a wee story, largely improbable, made up to entertain very young hobbits," said Pippin.

"We had books," Boromir said, "but they told of legends, and lore, and how we came to Middle-earth, in nine ships, sailing away from Numenor, as she slid beneath the sea."

"I wonder if we will ever have books written about us, big man." Pippin mused.

"Should you like that, little hobbit?" Boromir asked.

"I'm not sure. If the tale has a happy ending, then, yes. But if it does not, then I'd just as soon they leave us buried in the mists of time. I wouldn't want to be old, and frail, and to be reminded of what might have been. Memory is kinder than the written word, for we teach ourselves to forget the bits that hurt, put down in print, it sooner or later catches us out," said Pippin.

"You are so right, little one, one unguarded moment in a day filled with boredom, the push of the Archive door, the injudicious turn of a random page, and a healed scab may be ripped away. No, I would as soon be left out of tales, for those who knew one once, must surely find such revelations distressing?" Boromir said solemnly.

"I wish we were away from here," said Pippin, with unshed tears in his eyes, "I wish we were there, and back again!"

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of Professor J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Ten**

**The Ring Goes Forth**

**ooOoo**

**December 25th, 3018 of the Third Age**

**Dawn **

Elrond had just given his blessing to the Fellowship, and now the time had come to set forth, and brave the long, hard, road to Mordor. Gandalf was turning Frodo by a slight pressure upon his shoulder, and almost as one Boromir and Pippin sought out one another's eyes, and between Boromir's little sigh, and Pip's rolling eyeballs, they concurred that it was folly to be placing so much faith in one small hobbit.

"Can ye see them following me blindly, like we are following Frodo?" Pippin asked.

"As father always says, time to put a stout heart to a steep brae, little one!" Boromir shifted his shield to his greater comfort, and together they took their place in the solemn line of walkers. Even Merry was subdued today. Boromir had woken with a splitting headache that had manifested itself in a round of sickness, the likes of which he had not experienced since the night when his mother's body was laid to rest in the Hallows. On that long gone morning Boromir had woken as a boy, but he had gone to bed a man.

"Are ye alright, big man?" Pippin asked.

"I was thinking of home, I cannot reach the White City soon enough for my liking, I worry over what I might find there," said Boromir.

"I think of the Shire all the time. Of the good, simple folks there, the way we all pulled together, with no self-appointed authority figure to rap our knuckles, know what I mean, big man?" Pippin then glared at Gandalf's back.

"He would not _dare_ to offer you such an insult, for I would not stand for it," Boromir vowed.

"He does not see me as a grown hobbit, none of them does, you are the only one who accepts me for who I am," said Pippin.

"We ought to form a mutual admiration society then, for you are the only one who does not think me to be some 'rusticated oaf'!" Boromir snorted.

"I might just be a hobbit, but I know quality when I see it, have no fear," said Pippin.

"Mother always said good things come in small packages. In her case usually some jewel for her birthday, or the Yule-fest, she would definitely rank you amongst her favourite jewels," said Boromir.

"I should have liked to have met her," said Pippin. "I am looking forward to meeting your father. And your brother, and sitting in the Seven Bells Tavern, having a chin-wag, and supping ale with you both. It might just keep me going as this quest _thing_ progresses," Pippin predicted.

"I shall hold you to that, Master Took," Boromir laughed.

ooOoo

**Noon**

The Company drew to a halt, under Gandalf's direction, as Anor reached her zenith, offering the wearying travellers only muted warmth beneath her weakened wintry rays. With no time to build a fire for to cook, they ate apples, cheese, and elven way-bread. Water seemed rather ordinary after such a prolonged stay in Imladris, where the food had always been appetizing, the ale was light and refreshing, the red wine warming, and the famed cordial put a spring into the most jaded step.

The Hobbits ate voraciously, save for Frodo, who dug morsels of cheese from his portion, laid aside his apple, and then broke tiny bits off his way-bread to nibble upon. Merry, least restrained of the foursome, said: "Here, Frodo, if you aren't going to eat that apple, pass it here!"

Frodo did so, and Merry divided the fruit with his knife, and passed half to his cousin, Peregrin. No point in offering a piece to Sam, he'd just keep it for Frodo until it turned brown, and spoiled.

Boromir sipped his water, and ate the way-bread, alternatively. He was used to this regime of light food and water whilst on a march, the water sipped, never gulped, for the extra fluid made cramp a distinct possibility. He kept a discreet watch upon the Halflings, warning them they had eaten quite enough when the apple was divided, cautioning them to leave space, or risk a belly-ache. Aragorn sat alone smoking a pipe. Gandalf gravitated there 'ere they re-took the trail, and they spoke in hushed tones with heads touching. This irked Boromir, but he did not let his annoyance show. Gimli came and sat beside him, almost as if to distract the human, as though the Dwarf expected him to boil over, and hurl abuse at the two self-styled leaders. It would not have happened, but Boromir did appreciate the gesture.

"It feels like we have been walking for weeks. I find this terrain boring. It could be improved upon wi' a tunnel or two," said Gimli.

"I, too, have a soft spot for stone walls, Master Dwarf. There is something comforting about the ring of boot heels that one may not achieve in open countryside. I miss the noise, and the bustle, of my city," said Boromir.

"Aye, and the singing, and the banging atop the tables with foaming ale tankards, the roll of a good, deep, _burp_!" Gimli looked like he had tears welling in his deep-set eyes at the mere thought of a Moria banquet in full flow.

"Chin up, Gimli, you do have one I take it; underneath the face furniture?" Boromir teased.

"Heh-heh," Gimli chuckled, "You are a wit, human!"

"It takes one to recognize one, although in your case, the term might better be half-wit!" Boromir chuckled, and they exchanged a warrior handclasp, coming to terms with a mutual, wicked, sense of humour.

"Gather your belongings," Gandalf suddenly announced, "we shall journey until dusk."

"But…that's hours," said Pippin.

"You chose to join this quest, Peregrin Took, you must keep up, or be left behind," said the Wizard.

"You can do it, Pip," Merry encouraged, leaping in before Boromir did, for his face had turned grim of a sudden, "and if you can't, why, I will tie a carrot onto a long pole, and hold it out in front of you, like Maddy the Miller does with the donkey turning the grindstone!"

ooOoo

**Dusk**

For the last few miles Boromir had become increasingly concerned about the Hobbits. He knew that Frodo was coping, Gandalf saw to that, but he was carrying only the ring, the three other Halflings had backpacks, Sam was a walking Tinker's stall with his pots and pans clanking as he climbed. By dusk Boromir had determined to intervene.

"I think it folly to go any further this night," he announced. The elf and the dwarf paid him no heed, it could be a sign they were simply off somewhere else inside their own heads, for walking so far in near silence can do that, even to an entire column of soldiers, but Gandalf heard, as did Strider, for they both stopped and turned, and it was the Dúnadan who replied.

"It makes no sense to stop here in the open," he said.

"The hobbits are spent. They must take two strides to every one of yours, long-shanks. It makes no sense to gain a few paltry miles more at the expense of them being laid up tomorrow. As to open ground, there is a stand of trees yonder, even without elven hearing I can detect running water, and there is firewood also, or do I misrepresent these facts, being a bluff soldier, and not some back woodsman?" Boromir demanded.

"Mind yer tongue…!" Gandalf snapped, and Pippin sucked in a huge breath of air in anticipation.

"Who are you to order the Captain-General of Gondor, Wizard? My father is right to distrust you. Your motives are self-serving. I seek to prevent the little ones from taking injury; you care for naught but your own agenda! We camp!" Boromir growled, and now he turned off the trail and left those others in the fellowship to choose his path or Gandalf's. Pippin, naturally, chose to follow Boromir, and Merry, worn to a frazzle, followed meekly on.

"He is going to be trouble," Gandalf growled to Aragorn.

"He is his father's son," returned to Ranger, "we might as well halt, for Merry and Pippin are now off their feet and tiredness has kicked in."

"Very well, this fight he may win, but the _war_ shall be another outcome, entirely!" Gandalf predicted.

Boromir was already organizing their camp, he had Merry and Pippin setting out their bedrolls, and stacking their gear, he told them to go together to fill their water skins, to be silent, and to take only as long as it took to gather water, and fetch back a few sticks. As the cousins went off to do his bidding, Boromir began to lay a circle of stones for their fire.

"I would not risk a fire," Strider said as he stood above the man as he laboured.

"Shall it ever be like this, _Ranger_?" Boromir demanded as he stood to his feet and dusted one gauntleted palm against the other. "I rode from Minas Tirith to the Riven Dell alone; I think you shall discover, over the course of our journey, that I am no green townie!"

"But still no ranger," said Strider.

"I have the utmost respect for _all_ rangers. My brother is Captain of the Ithilien Brigade. But woodcraft is not the province of rangers alone. Shall you find the kindling, or shall I?"

The ranger strode off, his eyes sparkling in the little light available as the rays of Ithil broke through the scudding clouds. Boromir shook his head in despair. He would as soon not be drawn into conflict with the taciturn man, but if that was how the die fell, so be it, he cared not. His only concern tonight was getting the four Shirelings into their bedrolls for a few hours sleep, for they were unused to such a prolonged expenditure of energy.

"I suspect my feet shall protest when feeling returns!" Gimli announced to Boromir as he dumped a fair sized bundle of dry twigs by the stone circle.

"Feet can be quite vocal after a long march, Master Dwarf," Boromir mused. He and the vertically challenged one had struck up a rapport in Imladris, though they had not spent overly much time in one another's company. Soldiers always could find a common thread, no matter their differing cultures, or such was Boromir's experience.

"A wise decision, General, for the wee ones are over-faced with such distances," said Gimli.

Boromir nodded, not wanting to polarize the company, but grateful for Gimli's recognition of a potential problem.

"Will this do, big man?" Pippin asked as he set down an armful of dried leaves garnered from under a spread of bushes, trapped there by the wind, after the fall.

"I shall make a Woodsman of you yet, Master Took," Boromir chuckled.

"Of me, too…?" Merry enquired as he added to the bundle.

"I suspect you both shall rise to the top, like cream," said Boromir.

"Or like…"

"Merry! He has an earthy sense of humour, let's say," Pippin said with a grin.

"We are _all_ mature males here," said Boromir as Gandalf set down firewood, "and equals, as befits a company such as this one, sworn to _common_ purpose!"

Gandalf knew a rebuke when he heard one, and his parting '_harumph'_ conveyed his opinion of Boromir, son of Denethor.

"One cannot expect to be universally adored," Boromir said philosophically as he struck his tinderbox and deftly set the dried leaves alight.

"I like him," said Merry, nodding towards Boromir.

"Me too," said Pip, "he's comfy, like well worn toe fuzz!"

"Hee-hee…that's very witty, for you, Pip!"

"Who told you?" Pip questioned his cousin's ability to know wit when he heard it.

Within an hour the company was settled, in clusters, about the meagre fire.

The Elf and the Dwarf were within insult trading distance. Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, and the brooding Strider were in a secondary pod, opposite Boromir and the two hobbit cousins, both of whom were snoring gently under Boromir's travelling cloak, Merry's fluttering lips rhythmically wafting the rich sable lining as he exhaled. Pippin shifted in his sleep, and smacked his lips, his recent supper of dried beef no more than a distant memory. Boromir smiled fondly, wrapped his blanket about his own shoulders, and used the light from the dwindling fire to make his journal entry.

_December 25__th__, fourteen hours travelled, twenty-two miles covered, an average of 1.6 miles per hour achieved. Dawn to Dusk; turn south at Ford._

Shutting the leather-bound, pocket-sized, book with a snap, Boromir capped the small travelling inkwell, and placed these, and his stylus, back inside his pack. He gave the fire a cursory check, and then he flattened out upon the ground, and permitted himself to sleep. Gandalf grumbled under his breath, tapped the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, and tugged his felt hat down over his eyes.

The Ring Quest had officially begun.

TBC

A/N: Boromir's journal entries will be in the form of extracts from The _Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad_. I do know the fellowship set out dusk to dawn, but I chose to reverse this to fit my plotline.

Evendim


	11. Chapter 11

**Footsteps**

**By Evendim**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien_

**Chapter Eleven**

**The Breaking of the Fellowship**

**ooOoo**

Boromir finished writing in his daybook, his last action every night before either taking the Watch or falling asleep. The atmosphere around the Gondorian and Aragorn was fairly toxic after they had shared a frank exchange regarding the option to make way to Minas Tirith. Aragorn's statement that he would not take the ring within reach of _Boromir's_ city had burned Boromir beyond endurance. Not 'our' city, oh no, Boromir's city! This was the future, then. Here was a man who would be their king; but who refused to even own the city within which he would rule his kingdom. Boromir was in a dark place as he laid down to rest. He had gotten in a few well directed strikes of his own, but he was weary of this on-off friendship with the Ranger from the North. For a time they had come to be entirely civil with one another, even sharing a few memories along the way, the tension between the two had lessened considerably after Gandalf had fallen in Moria, although there had been a brief skirmish as Boromir demanded the hobbits be given a moment to grieve for the Wizard, but the General had been forced to concede that round, and press on towards Lothlórien.

All seemed hopeless, Boromir was losing sight of what it was he had set out to achieve. Counsel from a wise Elf Lord had somehow become a gruelling trek that almost half of the company bordered upon being incapable of completing. Now, tonight, he was losing hope. What was the point of his continuing with this folly? He could depart the company and make his own way to Minas Tirith. One man could conceal himself better than this rag-tag-and-bobtail travelling circus, with the dwarf's clanking armour, and Sam's pots and pans. He could find some outlying settlement, and borrow a mount. Once in the city he could ride out with his cavalry troop and…and be humiliated publicly, when the future King of the West declined his support. Yes, good one, Boromir.

"Can ye not sleep, big man?" Pippin asked softly from his bedroll close by.

"So it appears, little Shire-ling," Boromir forced a smile, but he could not fool Pippin. Not after so many hours spent in one another's company.

"You should not let him hurt you," said Pippin, "you made a good suggestion, and why will he not go to Minas Tirith when he will be king there at the end of this war?"

"That question would be best directed to Aragorn himself, I do not speak for him, apparently, though I was destined to be his Steward," Boromir said through a smile that would not reach his eyes, and likely there was no room there, for tears were forming where his false smile could not.

"Was…? You would not take this 'White Rod' thingy, then?" Pippin asked in shock. From all he had learned about Lord Denethor, the Stewardship was more than just a job, it was…everything! Boromir was going to give up…well…everything, because the future king would not go to the city of Minas Tirith? "I am confused, big man!"

"I told him in Rivendell that Gondor has no king; that Gondor needs no king. But with the White Crown upon his brow, he shall declare Gondor needs no Steward. His right, his decision, I care not. I could not serve him honourably after the way he dismissed my city, my people, he is not worth one more Hurin tear, far less my father's sanity, or my brother's life!" Boromir turned his head into his folded cloak, and Pippin understood the man did not wish him to view his tears.

"You have done nothing wrong, only worked hard to keep this company together. If he will not see, you cannot make him!" Pippin said gently, then he ran his hand over the blond mane of hair spread upon the make-shift pillow, and turned over in his bedroll, if only to block the cold, for there was no way he could sleep while Boromir was so distressed.

ooOoo

The canoe ran aground and Boromir hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, as though someone had stepped upon his grave, and for some odd reason Theodred of Rohan came to mind. The commotion around him soon dispelled the random notion, and he jumped out and dragged the canoe up onto the shingle. The company began to ferry their goods further up the shore, and Boromir set aside his shield and went to fetch firewood. Pippin sensed him leaving, had sensed his immense hurt the entire journey down river. Glancing at Aragorn, the hobbit saw the ranger noting Boromir's departure, and then Aragorn sensed he was under scrutiny and his head swivelled, and he and Pippin locked eyes. Pippin himself was hurting, for he knew that the General's honour would not permit him to leave the fellowship, even although he believed he ought to, in order to fetch assistance from the city. He was honouring his oath to protect Frodo, even although Master Baggins seemed not to approve of him.

"Pip…?" Merry had sensed there was something wrong, for Pippin was closed off to even him today.

"Its not right, its not fair, he should be happy to be home again, for the Argonath are set at the borders of Gondor, but he isn't, he hurts, here!" and Pippin slapped his own heart to demonstrate where Boromir's ache was seated.

"I don't see what we can do, Pippin," said Merry. "It's not our business, not Hobbit business." Merry felt he needed to clarify what he meant, for Pippin was growing increasingly vocal over certain topics; Boromir of Gondor, for to name but one.

"What _is_ Hobbit business? Why are we even here? We are of no actual use, and we delay the others. I wish I never had come!" Pippin said and began to trek up the beach carrying his pack.

Not so very far away Boromir was feeling much the same thing. Kneeling upon the ground he was weeping, and confused. Frodo had misconstrued his intention to borrow the ring; had put the token on, and, once invisible, had knocked Boromir down, and presumably ran into hiding. Boromir, with the influence of the ring removed from his presence, took a moment to gather his thoughts, and weep over his failure. It seemed to him that all was lost, that his father and his brother would be swept away on a tide of evil. His city would be brought to ruin, for who would stand before the gates and save her? Lost, bereft of honour, without hope, Boromir wished he could die where he knelt, sooner here than anywhere offering a view of Minas Tirith. This at least was Gondor, if he died here he would die fighting for the land he loved and had faithfully served since birth. This overpowering sense of loss, and defeat, wore at Boromir's soul. He had suffered a nightmare about Theodred; his Shield Brother had been alone, bloodied, hopelessly trying to make a stand, and the same shudder Boromir had experienced as he left the canoe was once more assailing him. Like some harbinger of doom. The sound of clashing steel, and shouts, and even the piping voice of a hobbit carried towards him. Instantly he shook off his own despair and a lifetime's training kicked in as he stood, collected his balance and took off at a run towards the sound of Pippin's cries for help.

Orcs, far too many for a random attack, they had been tracked, then. The Elf's ignored warning had proven to be correct. The warriors within the fellowship were scattered, Boromir stood his ground alone, with the two hobbits, Pippin and Merry, watching on, trying their best to assist him; even throwing rocks at the orcs in a vain attempt to ward them off. Gimli must be with the Elf. Where was Frodo? Wherever he was, likely Sam would be there also! Aragorn was nowhere to be seen, but it did not once occur to Boromir that the man was not caught up in the fight. Aragorn would fight to the death, of this Boromir was certain. They had paid the price of their fractured alliance. Together, as in Moria, the warriors had stood a slim chance of success. Here, divided, singled out, they were fighting little more than a last stand.

"So be it," Boromir whispered aloud, "For Gondor!"

"Big man…! Boromir…!" Pippin's clear voice carried above the noise and the confusion as Boromir fought like a man possessed.

"It is over," Boromir whispered, death had come in the form of a great Uruk. The brute carried a bow and many arrows, crow-black fledged, and he was growling directly at Boromir. "Father, Faramir, remember me!"

The first arrow hit with such force it toppled Boromir upon the turf. Still he fought his way back, all too aware the hobbits, his little ones, were watching on helplessly. The orc nearest to Boromir paid with his life. It was a pointless strike, it made no difference whether the creature lived or died. The second strike felled Boromir once again, and now he knew his death was no longer in the balance. It was a certainty. Again he fought to his knees, and he took out a pawn of the White Hand. Merry and Pippin were weeping, and fighting against captivity, but both were now being borne away from the battle. It was over, he was over, there was nothing to be done now save make a good death. The third arrow pierced him, and he knew it was over. The Uruk was drawn off into battle by Aragorn, but it no longer mattered, Boromir felt for the hilt of his sword, and he heard the demented screams of Pippin as his eyes lost their focus. He had been born to die; it had ever been his destiny. At least he was going to die on home soil.

At the very last he saw the man who would be king stoop over him, felt him place a kiss upon his brow, and murmur words of blessing and peace. It was too late to reconcile, he was already losing consciousness, and his fading moments upon Arda were as a mist forming behind his eyes, and then the pain left him, and he let go of his fear, and his loss, and his…duty.

_And from that moment,_

_I dreamed I could fly,_

_And from that mountain I reached for the sky;_

_Through tears and good times, I found my way;_

_Those years are calling me again;_

_Then I hear footsteps echoing along the winding road,_

_I can hear voices singing all the songs I have known,_

_And I see faces,_

_All the ones I've loved along the way,_

_People and places,_

_They're here again, they're here again…_

ooOoo

_Footsteps performed by Chris De Burgh_

The end


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